Disclaimer: Sadly, Harry is not mine. Tear.
A/N: I'm supposed to be doing my homework right now, but this is much more fun. Sigh. I am so failing social studies this year. So, here's another one-shot. It's rather depressing. I tried writing something funny, but it was coming out like crap. Never fear, I shall try again this weekend. And now, on with the show! Except, this is a story.
In case you can't figure it out, Ginny is speaking.
Lost in Faded Photographs
I can still remember him.
Almost.
The way my fingers tingled as they glided through his hair. The slow breathes that filled my ears as he dozed in the common room. The rhythmic beat of his heart; it was the most beautiful music in the world to me.
I try not to think about the fact that his heart, his brave, caring, endlessly loving heart, no longer has a pulse.
Those details, the tiny things that had once brought solace to me, now bring me increasing discomfort. For I can no longer recall the texture of his hair, or the angles of his sleeping form, or the exact tempo of his heart beat.
The Harry that was once so clear to me it seemed as if he would appear in my doorway any second, any minute now if I just wished hard enough, has become foreign to me. His features no longer stand out in the sharpest relief.
Old and tattered photographs are the only images I have left. When I tried to look upon his face in the photo albums from Hogwarts, from the days before we bore the scars of war, I discovered that Ron and Hermione had discarded them.
How can they so effortlessly move on with their lives? They claim it is easier to forget, and sometimes I envy their ability to be normal. But they have each other to hold on to, while I have no arms waiting to hold me close. Not anymore.
This obsession with a dead man is seriously hindering my ability to look to the future instead of dwelling on the past. On things that can never be reversed.
I regard my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. I have aged, but haven't we all; we, who have seen such horrific tragedies? It seems we have aged more than normal; one can see it in the eyes.
Eyes. I recall that Harry's eyes had been green. Green was an understatement, but I can not remember the exact shade they were, nor grasp the words to describe the seemingly infinite emotions they had once conveyed.
It has been such a long time since I was on the receiving end of one of those powerful emotions. Far too long.
I am fading, wasting away, being slowly consumed by my grief. It will be 16 years since…since it happened soon. But oh yes, the grief is still there. Everyone can tell I am slipping away, and I don't bother to try and hide it anymore. I have no strength left.
Maybe I'll be joining you soon, Harry. Sirius, Dumbledore, Remus, Fred, George, Tonks; it must be quite a party up there now.
If you were here, you would tell me to stop being so silly, to pull myself together. There are dishes to be cleaned, gardens to be de-gnomed, clothes to fold. Yet all these tasks feel harder and more foreboding than facing the Dark Lord himself. Perhaps because I no longer have you by my side.
It'll be 16 years soon, Harry. And you're still lost. Lost in faded photographs and empty memories.
I wish I could find you.
Fin.
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